


(so what do you say) your coffin or mine?

by GoddessEris00



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Cliche, Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-16
Updated: 2011-11-16
Packaged: 2017-10-26 03:22:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/278108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoddessEris00/pseuds/GoddessEris00
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Confined spaces, misunderstood fetishes and hidden injuries. Just a regular cliche-fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(so what do you say) your coffin or mine?

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from from Alkaline Trio's "Blue in the Face."

There are pros and cons to the situation, thought Danny. Probably more of the latter than the former, which is only to be expected when you’re trapped in a coffin in the back of a truck. And are bleeding from a gunshot wound to the leg. And that you kind of have to pee. All cons. Not to mention, the fact that the truck is no doubt headed to the crematorium a local crime syndicate has been using to dispose of evidence is also a pretty big con.  
　  
The pro on that one, was that Danny received a text from Chin moments before things got FUBARed in the warehouse indicating that he and Kono had determined _which_ crematorium the bad guys had been using. No easy task considering that Hawaii is an island with limited burial space, so of course there are a record number of places for alternate disposal of the dead. At the time he read the text Danny was glad for the break in the case, but now he was pretty much hoping it would save Steve and himself from a fiery death. Right, because Steve was here too, in the coffin with him, and boy did that straddle the pro/con line. Because while it’s handy to have your partner around in these tight situations, two grown men in a coffin is a little tighter a situation than Danny would like.  
　  
"Oh, my god, could you possibly take up any more space? I’m serious here, I’m asking in all seriousness, did you take a deep breath to inflate your chest to three times its normal size? Because you are just crushing me here, against this creepy silk-lined wall, which, FYI, the silk-lining? Does not make it any softer."  
　  
"Danny," replied Steve in a long suffering voice, "shut up. I am taking up a perfectly normal amount of space, and I’m also pressed against the not-very-comfortable wall. And your hair is in my face."  
　  
Yes, they were practically spooning, but Danny was trying to ignore that fact, like he was trying to ignore his overfull bladder and throbbing leg. He wasn’t succeeding on any of those counts.  
　  
"Oh, my hair is in your face. You know what’s in my face? A musty piece of fabric designed for the comfort of the _dead_. At least my hair is soft and smells good."  
　  
Steve snorted and Danny chose to interpret it as agreement. He considered keeping quiet for about a minute in order to conserve air, but the pain in his leg and the heat of his partner’s chest where it pressed against his back quickly led him back to his favorite pastime. If the ranting also drove Steve crazy, so much the better.  
　  
"I’m holding you responsible, I hope you realize this," he began. His hands were pretty much pinned between his own chest and the wall, so he made up for his limited ability to flail by bumping his head back gently against Steve’s chin and wiggling his right foot as he began outlining exactly how their getting ambushed in the warehouse and subsequently stuffed in a coffin built for one was due to Steve and his renegade, super SEAL ways and disregard for things like proper procedure and planning things. He left out the part about getting shot because he was pretty sure Steve hadn’t noticed, and he wanted to give him a hard time, not, you know, _worry_ him about something that wasn’t even a big deal. Danny couldn’t exactly tell how heavy the bleeding was (he couldn’t even actually reach his leg), and why bring it up when neither of them was in a position to render first aid?  
　  
"You have to shut up, please. Stop talking and stop moving, Danny, I’m not kidding." Steve’s voice was strained and Danny suddenly wondered if he was not the only one hiding an injury.  
　  
"You all right back there?" he asked more gently.  
　  
"Fine."  
　  
"You don’t sound fine."  
　  
"I’m trapped in a goddamn coffin, Danny."  
　  
"Yes, so am I, but I don’t sound like I’ve been swallowing glass."  
　  
Steve didn’t say anything and now Danny was really starting to worry that his partner had been stoically bleeding out behind him. There was still zero space for maneuvering, but Danny had determination on his side and he managed to bring his good, non-shot leg up about an inch before it was bumping against the wall and then he tried a kind of pushing off, twisty thing that put way too much pressure on his bad leg. It may be a little hypocritical given his silence on his current state of health, but if Steve was hurt, well, there was no question that Danny will overcome pain and anguish and tight spaces to help him. However, before he could begin the second part of the plan, which involved getting his arms in on the action, Steve’s hands were clamping firmly around Danny’s hips, and Danny had a brief moment to think _fucker has more space than he’s admitting_ before Steve pushed him impossibly more into the wall. His knee slipped down and off that fucking silk-lining and back onto his other leg, the sudden jarring movement causing the wound to flare with incredible pain and he yelled "jesusdamnit, Steve" completely against his will.  
　  
"Sorry," said Steve, "but I did say to stop moving," and from his placating tone it was obvious he was assuming that Danny was mad as oppose to in agony. He was partially right.  
　  
Danny took calming breaths until the throbbing subsided to a more manageable level and worried briefly about air supply. Then he worried about how good it felt to have Steve’s fingers wrapped around his hips. He also worried about blood loss and other things he might be losing, like his sanity.  
　  
"I was trying," he said finally, "to determine where you are hurt. You ungrateful, _pushy_ bastard."  
　  
"I’m not hurt," insisted Steve. He tilted his neck until his forehead rested against the back of Danny’s head. "I just… you can’t move, okay, Danny?"  
　  
As he spoke his breath puffed lightly across the back of Danny’s neck, just above his collar, and even if he had planned to comply with Steve’s "no moving rule" the shorter man couldn’t help the shiver that raced up his spine from the feel of it and the strangely intimate tone of voice that called to mind tangled sheets and mussed hair and other things Danny shouldn’t be considering in conjunction with his boss.  
　  
Steve’s fingers tightened on Danny’s hips and Steve hissed "stop moving!" again but Danny was done. Clearly, Steve had some room to spare back there if he could move his arms and hands and head and touch Danny in this infuriating manner. If Steve wasn’t hurt than Danny didn’t need to be careful about how he moved, he decided, bringing both legs up swiftly despite the pain and pushing off the wall with his forearms as hard as his limited mobility allowed.  
　  
"Fuck," said Steve as Danny pushed back into him, and okay maybe he hadn’t thought this whole plan through because they were definitely spooning now; every part of them that could possibly be touching was doing so in earnest. The hard planes of Steve’s chest pressed tight against Danny’s back, check. Firm thighs cradling his own, yup. Erection pressing urgently into his ass, what the fuck.  
　  
"What. The. Fuck," stuttered out Danny before trailing off in a rare moment of speechlessness. Justified, he thought, because when you are trapped in a coffin with your boss-slash-partner, pretty much the last thing you expect to find in there with you is a hard-on. Also pushing the weird-o-meter into batshit insane territory is the fact that those hands clasped tightly around his hips? Still there, still holding Danny in place, but now decidedly pulling him in instead of pushing him away.  
　  
"Fuck," said Steve again, voice back in the low and gravely range, and Danny felt it vibrate against his back. It was a good word; it pretty accurately described the situation, but one of them was going to have to expand their vocabulary in the next few minutes. Before things become awkward beyond belief. Before Danny did something irreparable like push back against the hard length of his boss’ cock. Again. He was going to have to say something and it couldn’t be an offer to take care of that for Steve, no matter how much he might want to. Anyway, maybe he’s had a fantasy or seven about the SEAL, but it sure as hell never played out like this. It was hot and dark and entirely unsexy in the coffin; whatever had gotten Steve revved up had completely passed Danny’s libido by. Then Steve’s fingers flex once more and Danny thought, well, maybe not _completely_.  
　  
He finally managed to force a laugh. "Steve, man, is there something you want to tell me? Talk about a fetish!" He was trying to sound normal and probably failing, but talking was like breathing to him and so he kept going. "You getting a charge from the adrenaline? Or is this an ‘I am a Navy SEAL, I enjoy confined spaces’ kind of thing?"  
　  
"Danny," Steve tried to interrupt, still in his glass shards voice with an edge of desperation.  
　  
"Hey, no worries, partner, really," continued Danny doggedly, as if there was any way to make this less insane. "What’s a boner between friends? Everyone's got that, uh... thing-- the thing that makes their clock tick, right? I mean, as long as this isn’t because of the coffin. Right? Steve? Steven! Please tell me this isn’t about the coffin."  
　  
"You’re killing me, Danny," rasped Steve and dear god he began rocking against Danny now, nothing too up-tempo but definitely in rhythm, on purpose, and it feels better than it should, but Danny is not down with vampire fetishes or corpse love or that Twilight book bullshit Grace is too young to read but has been asking about already. In another place, say in a bed or on a couch, or hell, bent over a desk, Danny wouldn’t mind revisiting this sensation at all. But not in a coffin, and sure as hell not because of a coffin.  
　  
"Steve, you gotta stop, man," he said, trying for reasonable but coming out a little breathy as Steve managed to shift around enough to gain access to the side of Danny’s neck, using his nose and chin in some kind of facial ninja move to push the collar down and out of the way and then dragging his lips gently across the exposed skin, occasionally nipping at it.  
　  
"YOU have to stop," replied Steve, his voice muffled against Danny’s neck, and seriously, what is he, five?  
　  
"I have to stop? I’m not doing anything! I’m just trapped in here with you and your kinky-ass fantasies. Coffins and neck-biting. Fucking vampires."  
　  
"What?" And now Steve stopped rutting against Danny and nuzzling his neck, and he has kind of let up on that kung-fu grip, and that was exactly what Danny wanted and not at all disappointing, he assured himself.  
　  
"You really want me to repeat that?" asked Danny tiredly. Now that Steve was no longer distracting him quite so badly, his leg was throbbing like crazy again, his head pounding in time with it, and the cloth where it was touching his skin felt soaked. He’s doubly glad he didn’t tell Steve "I probably also have a thing for blood play" McGarrett about getting shot. Sexy weirdo.  
　  
"Repeat, no, but an explanation would be nice. You like explaining things. Just… don’t use a lot of words."  
　  
Danny thought he had been clear. He thought about saying "No sexy times in a coffin, thanks, but feel free to molest me later," except Steve wasn’t going to want to molest him later, right? That was the problem. Or maybe the coffin was the problem. Or that there was no goddamn air in here. Or the fact that Steve had fully removed his hands from Danny’s hips as if he has only now discovered the concepts of personal space and inappropriate touching.  
　  
"It’s hot," said Danny quietly. "It’s hot and I’m frustrated and I’m not a toy, here, for you to get your rocks off against because the situation excites you and there’s nothing better to do until we’re rescued."  
　  
It wasn’t a rant, not even close. He felt drained and dizzy and so tired, like Steve’s touch had been keeping him grounded, and now without it he’s floating away. He felt angry and stupid, too, because this was probably the only chance he was ever going to get to be with Steve outside of his dreams, and he didn’t take it because it wasn’t nearly enough.  
　  
"The situation," repeated Steve carefully, "meaning the coffin."  
　  
"Right."  
　  
"And not you."  
　  
"Yeah," agreed Danny again, and then, "what?"  
　  
"Danny," Steve began hesitantly, suddenly exercising a level of caution he generally failed to achieve when chasing suspects or storming warehouses. "I’m really not a fan of coffins, you know."  
　  
"Okay…" started Danny, "then what was the—shit!"  
　  
Danny hadn’t noticed how smoothly the truck had been traveling until it suddenly wasn’t. Whatever was going on out there (and please let it be Chin and Kono and a really big gun) had caused the truck to stop sharply, flinging the coffin around and subsequently the men inside back into each other, only this time it was nothing but pain.  
   
"Oh, goddammit," muttered Danny as in the jostling he finally got his hands down and around his thigh. The pant leg was completely soaked through, so his current dizziness was definitely more due to blood loss over any shortage of air. He really hoped that Chin and Kono had brought a first aid kit along with that gun.  
　  
"Danny," Steve said urgently once they were stationary again. "Look at the top corner down by you, there’s a little light coming in. The lid is coming loose. Can you kick it open?"  
　  
Danny let out a short, bitter laugh. "Sorry, partner, I don’t think I’m going to be much use here."  
　  
"What? What’s going on? Is it your knee?"  
　  
"More like the whole leg," Danny admitted finally. "I may have been a little shot earlier."  
　  
"A little shot?" Steve’s voice was carefully even. "Can you elaborate?"  
　  
"Well," started Danny before pausing. "Not really."  
　  
And then Steve’s hands were back on him, gentle but persistent as they skimmed down his body until reaching Danny’s own hands where they were clasped around his thigh.  
　  
"You’re soaked," said Steve matter-of-factly, voice back in the normal range, hands expertly pushing Danny’s own aside in order to better gauge the extent of the wound. "Please tell me this isn’t all blood and you actually did wet yourself."  
　  
"Please, McGarrett, I’m not five," snorted Danny. "I am fully capable of holding it, no matter how much coffee you made you drink this morning."  
　  
"Oh, that’s my fault, too?" asked Steve incredulously. "I forced you to drink coffee, I got you trapped in a coffin, I got you shot—"  
　  
"Hey, I never said you got me shot," interrupted Danny. "You’re putting words in my mouth. Words that I, in fact, tried very hard to avoid mentioning altogether. Obviously this was necessary to spare you and your overly sensitive feelings."  
　  
"Don’t do me any more favors, seriously," Steve deadpanned. And then: "this is really bleeding Danny."  
　  
Danny sighed. "Yeah, I was kind of getting that impression, too. Where the hell is the rest of our team?"  
　  
"I'm sure they're the ones who crashed the truck," said Steve. He moved one of his hands up to the tie around Danny's neck. "I can't believe you didn't tell me you got shot."  
　  
"Hey, you kept telling me to shut up," pointed out Danny, trying for some levity.  
　  
Steve just yanked forcefully on the knot of the tie.  
　  
"Jesus, Steven, are you trying to choke me now?" complained Danny. "Seriously, what the hell are you doing? You'd better not get blood on that tie, it was a gift from Gracie--Father's Day, 2009."  
　  
"Danny, I am _untying_ your tie, to use it as a _tourniquet_ , to stop you from _bleeding out_! So I'm sorry if it gets some of _your blood_ on it!" Steve's voice raised steadily as he ranted, but he gentled the tugging on the tie, finally managing to ease it undone.  
　  
"Sorry, man. Sorry." When he got Steve riled enough to rant back, it was usually time to back off a little. But on the other hand he didn't want to focus on Steve wrapping the tie around his upper thigh, those nimble fingers dangerous close to... other regions. "Still, though, couldn't you have used my belt instead? I have no fond memories attached to this belt."  
　  
Steve paused in the act of tightening the tie, and Danny wondered if the same thought had struck him—if he was also imaging the slow, fumbling unbuckling of the belt in the dark, sliding it out from the loops one by one, and where it might have led next.  
   
"Jesus, Danny, I really wish you would just shut up."  
　  
That was probably a yes. He wondered how long Steve had wanted to get him naked.  
　  
"A while," said Steve with some amusement in his voice.  
　  
"Shit, I said that out loud?" murmured Danny. He was definitely going to blame the blood loss for that one.  
　  
"You say everything out loud," replied Steve. "It's part of your charm. A really, really small part."  
　  
"Fuck... you, man," sighed Danny. It was dark in here, he thought, but was it getting even darker? "You love... me."  
　  
Shit, thought Danny vaguely. He'd meant to say "it." Hadn't he?  
　  
Steve's reply was lost in the sudden roaring in Danny's ears. He was pretty sure he was about to pass out altogether, but who knew what other crazy things he might say in the meantime. He wanted to tell Steve not to take anything Danny raved about seriously, and not to use it against him later. What came out was: "Don't... take advantage... of my state."  
　  
He thought he heard Steve snort, once, and then the sound of wood splintering. It suddenly got brighter and louder, painfully so, and Danny slid back into the darkness gratefully.  
　  
When he opened his eyes again, it was to the bright, white walls of a hospital room. He could hear the steady hum of electronics and the beeping of the heart monitor. It wasn't comforting, exactly, but it was familiar. At least he wasn't intubated this time. He hated not being able to talk.  
　  
He turned his head to side to find Steve watching him.  
　  
"How are you feeling?" asked Steve.  
　  
Danny tried to shrug, despite the various tubes running in and out of him. "I'm okay. Not burned alive, at least."  
　  
Steve smiled. "Always a plus." He hesitated and then continued. "I called Rachel—I know they're on holiday right now, but I figured she needed to know, that Grace did, too. I said you were okay, though—"  
　  
"Steve, that's fine. I'm glad you let them know, and I trust you to do it in the best way possible. Relax, partner."  
　  
Steve's smile grew, and Danny felt the usual pang at seeing him happy, for once, instead of like the fate of the island rested entirely on his shoulders. The beeping picked up a little speed, and Danny mentally groaned. Betrayed by his own heartbeat, that was just great.  
　  
"So listen," Steve leaned in closer to him, a distinctly mischivious look on his face. "I was wondering-- exactly which state am I looking for, here?"  
　  
Danny frowned. "What?"  
　  
"I need to know what state I can take advantage of you in. Injured is out, of course, and in the hospital, too, I'm guessing."  
　  
"You-- what?" spluttered Danny. "You are such a goof, you know that, right? What am I going to do with you?"  
　  
"Whatever you want, Danny. I'm all yours."  
　  
Steve's cheeks were flushed a little pink, but his gaze was earnest as he looked at his partner.  
　  
"That's--" Danny cleared his throat. "Me too. I mean, yes, or same, or ditto. Any state, babe."  
　  
Steve moved in closer, dropping a gentle kiss on Danny's lips. It was a little chaste, sure, but they were in a public hospital room, and despite Danny's assurances he wasn't exactly one hundred percent yet.  
　  
Steve pulled back slightly, and murmured. "It's your voice, by the way."  
　  
"My what?"  
　  
"Your voice," repeated Steve with a grin, "is what, how did you put it? Makes my clock tick. Not coffins. We were just stuck in there and there was nothing to focus on but your voice. And you, of course, wouldn't stop talking. It was like... sensory overload."  
　  
"Well, thank god for that," said Danny in mock relief. "Now kiss me again, or I'll give you the silent treatment."

"I know that's an empty threat," replied Steve. He kissed him anyway, once, and then a few more times. Just in case.


End file.
